Andrea S. James

Category: Inspiration

  • Intellectual honesty and a lesson from Bob Woodward

    For a guest lecture once at Pacific Lutheran University, I compiled a list of interviewing techniques for journalism students. The key lesson that topped them all was this:

    Do not lie. Be smart enough to figure out how to get the story without deception.

    Being upfront has saved me embarrassment many times in my career — whether it’s when an e-mail I wrote was forwarded up some chain and back to my boss, or, whether it was when I found myself questioned by authorities about my intentions.

    In each case, I could say that I had honestly represented myself at all times. (Phew!)

    Intellectual honesty is a virtue, I think, in any profession. It is particularly necessary for anyone working in the information business, and that’s nearly everyone these days! All we have to go on is our integrity. It’s not worth blowing it, even for a seemingly harmless white lie.

    Now:  You should have a healthy skepticism of anyone who would blog about how honest he or she is, in life or her job. So, instead of bragging to you about how awesome it is to work honestly, let me tell you about the time I screwed up, and got schooled in front of my peers in this regard.

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  • Oh, the humanity!

    I can’t help but be incredibly moved by stories of human rescue and triumph. It taps into something deep.

    I can still recall crying at my desk at FDIC in the summer of 2002, reading about the Quecreek Mine Rescue online. Those nine men were trapped for 78 hours and were rescued alive. Rejoice!

    So, how much more special will it be if / when the Chilean miners are rescued! The 33 of them have been trapped in a mine in Chile since August 5. They are living in an approximately 500-square-foot space. (See this diagram on CNN.com.)

    For the first 18 days after the mine collapse, no one knew if they were alright. And then, finally, a drill punctured the top of the space and the miners attached a note that said, roughly translated, “There are 33 of us and we are alive in a refuge.”

    Photo:

    The first communication with the miners after the mine collapse
    President Sebastian Pinera holds up the first communication with the miners after the mine collapse. (AP)

    The media loves stories like this, they are sensational for all the right reasons. CNN has been doing its share of coverage, and the BBC is reportedly sending a crew of 25 to cover the rescue.

    There is a part of me, however, that knows that these men are not saints — none of us are. That their families have problems like the rest of us. And I sort of appreciate that the tabloid media tells that side of the story. Though, I do feel silly when tears are running down my face as I read about the details of the ongoing rescue and then I come across this:

    “Some of the men’s wives have had another unpleasant surprise – running into their husbands’ girlfriends at the camp above ground,” according to the Daily Mail.

    Humans will be humans. A little drama at the camps. We can all rejoice with them anyway.

  • Pop the cork, spritz the pricey perfume, today is special

    A home along the Mississippi Gulf Coast. The sign says, "Do not allow Katrina to steal your joy." (Photo by Andrea James | September 2005)
    A home along the Mississippi Gulf Coast. The sign says, "Do not allow Katrina to steal your joy." (Photo by Andrea James | September 2005)

    I’ve been meaning to write a post about how every day is a special occasion. But every time I begin, I think, what kind of cliche piece of advice is that? Everyone knows that from reading Hallmark “just because” cards.

    And yet, I have to remind myself of that often.

    In the past, whenever someone gave me perfume or a sweet smelling lotion, I would save it. By the time I was 23, I had amassed a solid collection of lotions and soaps and bubble bath and bath beads and relaxation oils — you’d think that I was obsessed with indulging myself amid the scent of rose and lavender.

    And I think that friends and family must have seen my collection and thought, “Wow, she loves Bath & Body Works,” thus creating a multiplier effect on gift occasions.

    Once, while helping me to move, my brother-in-law exclaimed, “You and all your bottles!”

    At the time, I couldn’t bear to part with even one bottle. I was storing these away for a special occasion. This went on for years.

    Then my wedding day came and went. I think I used one of the lotions. Once.

    I gave away my collection shortly after.

    This upcoming Sunday marks the five-year anniversary of Hurricane Katrina.

    I wonder if my newfound penchant for giving things away, and not holding onto too many posessions, comes in part from having lived on the Gulf Coast during the storm. (See my recount in the aftermath, here.)

    During that time, I volunteered to help families clean out after their homes flooded. Beloved possessions became soggy stinking junk.  Items that may have been saved to honor a special occasion instead became chores — stuff had to be picked up, salvaged or discarded.

    It seemed like an enormous and endless task.

    I’m eager to read some of the Hurricane Katrina look backs and the where-are-we-now pieces.  Particularly from those who have a connection to the Gulf Coast.

    As for how to mark this special-tragic-occasion? I will try to remember that there’s never a better time than now to drink the good wine.

    More photos below the jump. Click any photo to enlarge it:

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  • Let’s play . . . back in my day

    Recently, I was thinking over some of the harshest criticisms I’ve received in my career, and how I’m thankful for them now.

    I decided to have some fun with this idea, so I pinged some journalist friends with this challenge: “I want you guys to try to remember things that editors have said to you, that shaped you, and which weren’t very nice.”

    So, here is what my friends and I came up with. I’ve changed every female name to “Jennifer” and “Lauren,” every male name to “Bob.” My friends were more comfortable sharing this way, particularly because some of them are now at the top of their fields.

    I’ve also obscured the names of the publications.

    I hope they give you a good laugh. And if you happen to be new to this field or any other, know that the best professionals got that way in part thanks to tough love.

    Please share yours!

    —-

    “Hey Jennifer, over the weekend, why don’t you read the New York Times and learn how to fucking write.”

    —-

    “What do you do? Be a fucking reporter, that’s what.” — Editor, after I called up and complained that nothing interesting happened at a Chicago city council housing committee meeting.

    —-

    The editor walks over and slaps a draft printout of my “tech bits” write-up on my desk.

    “You read that first sentence and tell me if it makes you want to read the rest of the story.”

    I read my lede. It didn’t.

    As he walked away, he said, “Don’t be boring.”

    —-

    “He hung up on you? Go to his door so he can slam the door in your face instead.” –Editor

    —-

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  • The door’s open, but the ride, it ain’t free

    One of my favorite blogs to read is one on voluntary simplicity, by Emily Achenbaum Harris.

    Harris quit her reporting job at the Chicago Tribune last year to pursue a simpler life. She gave up the city, the stress and the suits, and now blogs about all that she has gained in return.

    At the time, I admired that she admitted in her final Tribune column that she isn’t independently wealthy. Translation: Any of us could shun the material stuff and do what she’s doing.

    Part of my fascination with her blog is that she and I went opposite ways — I traded journalism in for high heels, stock analysis and finance.  She left to start a family and grow her own vegetables.

    She’s also a good writer, which makes reading her blog a guilty pleasure.

    Today, she has posted a guest post from me. It’s an essay I wrote about my irrational love for my car.

    Check it out, and leave a comment!

  • Observing America through nomadic Thanksgivings

    The first Thanksgiving in which I didn’t go home to my family in New Jersey was in 2004. I was working for Bloomberg News in London at the time, and I had to work.

    For the first time, I felt homesick for the United States. Having to work on Thanksgiving? Not only that, there were no news stories about busy airports and long lines at the Amtrak station. No Thanksgiving-related food drives for the needy. No children making turkeys out of paper plates and construction paper.

    I had a turkey sandwich for lunch, some English afternoon tea and that evening, I set out to have dinner with two American friends, Kris and Mark. It turned out to be a great adventure — starting with a rickshaw ride down Regent Street in London and culminating with wine and the best dinner possible given the lack of American ingredients with which to make it. (They didn’t sell whole turkeys there!) (Story and photos from my blog at that time are at this link.)

    The following year, I spent Thanksgiving with families in the Hurricane Katrina zone. I wrote one of the best one-day articles of my career.

    Future Thanksgivings were spent with friends in Seattle, or working and eating the office potluck.

    This is what life is like for most journalists, and every other type of person whose career takes her far from home. Home becomes a place you create.

    This year, I find myself in yet another new city: Minneapolis. Another city that I’d never visited before my job interview. Another city to which I moved not knowing anyone but my employer. Another city that has its own personality and quirks (state fair!) that you just have to visit to understand.

    Nearly everyone in my office invited me over for Thanksgiving — they know I am here alone and don’t hesitate to invite a near-stranger over to share the day. How’s that for good will and kindness?

    But I do have plans. My friend from Northwestern University hails from here, and she’ll be in town for the holiday and her family has invited me to join in.  For that, I’m thankful.

    And I’m also thankful for this American tradition. Londoners remarked to me that they don’t have a similar holiday in which everyone gets together and celebrates, no matter what their religion.

    Now that I’ve lived on all American coasts, and in seven cities in 10 years, I can tell you — we’re lucky to have a holiday that transcends religion and politics.

    Thanksgiving brings out the best in us, and we can be proud of that.

    Happy Thanksgiving.

  • A layman’s poem with a simple message

    One of the few items I own that belonged to my late father is a worn collection of Robert Service poems.  The book is hardback — light blue cloth and gold leaf lettering on the outside, yellowed pages inside. The book is about 50 years old and it’s got that old book smell of wood and wet leaves.

    My dad once told me that his favorite poem is in that book. It’s called, “Comfort.”

    It’s been years since I thought of that poem, but the verses just popped into my mind as I read Emily Achenbaum Harris’ musings to wish us all a happy first day of fall.

    This sounds cheesy, but the following poem is the only one that I have committed to memory, and can recite with any feeling. I’m willing to embarrass myself a little here by sharing, because maybe you’ll get comfort from the poem too:

    Comfort
    By Robert Service

    Say! You’ve struck a heap of trouble —
    Bust in business, lost your wife;
    No one cares a cent about you,
    You don’t care a cent for life;

    Hard luck has of hope bereft you,
    Health is failing, wish you’d die —
    Why, you’ve still the sunshine left you
    And the big, blue sky.

    Sky so blue it makes you wonder
    If it’s heaven shining through;
    Earth so smiling ‘way out yonder,
    Sun so bright it dazzles you;

    Birds a-singing, flowers a-flinging
    All their fragrance on the breeze;
    Dancing shadows, green, still meadows —
    Don’t you mope, you’ve still got these.

    These, and none can take them from you;
    These, and none can weigh their worth.
    What! you’re tired and broke and beaten? —
    Why, you’re rich — you’ve got the earth!

    Yes, if you’re a tramp in tatters,
    While the blue sky bends above
    You’ve got nearly all that matters —
    You’ve got God, and God is love.

    -###-

  • Twentysomething and injured: An ode to good posture

    My trapezius muscle hates me.

    That’s the big muscle that spans the neck and shoulders, the one that feels soooo good when it gets massaged.

    About two years ago, I began getting neck pains so sharp that they brought me tears. The pain would come on pretty rapidly, starting as a dull ache, and within hours, I would not be able to turn my head. I spent my 26th birthday unable to look up, down, left or right. I had to turn my whole body to see the person I was talking to.

    The doctor told me that my troubles were the simple result of long hours in front of the computer with poor posture. My trapezius got so tired of having to hold up my head at an angle that the whole muscle would just up and quit. It would seize up, or contract, and not let go for days.

    When my HR manager, who doubles as my friend, found out about my pain and its causes, she suggested I file a workman’s comp claim. This felt lame. To me, workman’s comp was reserved for the guy in the hardhat whose foot just got run over by a forklift.

    I was a notepad-totin, air-conditioned-office dweller. I was an avid jogger, skiier and hiker. How could a keyboard and mouse get the best of me?

    But I filed a claim, and got free physical therapy, (thanks state of Washington!), and learned some things that I will share with you, fellow office dwellers:

    • If you don’t sit up straight and use your core muscles — that is, your abdominals and lower back — your bones will change shape to accommodate your bad posture. By the time your hair is gray, you will be permanently hunched over. My physical therapist showed me that I have a lump at the back of my neck because of poor posture and shifting bones, and she said this is common.
    • Be conscious of hunching over to read your monitor. Have the monitor raised to eye level.
    • My posture was so bad for so long that some of my neck muscles had atrophied. I had to do little neck-ups (like situps with your head) to get those muscles back and working again. Also, my physical therapist massaged some of my neck tendons to stimulate them. I don’t fully understand what she did, but those massages felt like flavor crystals being released into my muscles.
    • Yoga is the best way that I have found to undo the damage of long hours of mouse-clicking. I have a prescription for muscle relaxant drugs to get my trapezius to let go after it seizes up. One yoga session works just as well as a muscle relaxant. (This is my Seattle yoga teacher. She’s all about strengthening and getting a fierce workout, yet at the same time, “honoring yourself.” Check her out!)

  • A Love Message

    So loved.

    Two words that first came to mind when I pulled out my notebook last night, in tears, and jotted down my thoughts.

    For Lent this year, I’m giving up possessions. Because I’m tired of all the crap and clutter that choke space. Because the Bible says not to be a slave to our possessions. And because it’s my New Year’s resolution to live a simpler life. (We’ll see how it goes.)

    Each night I must give up a possession, so that when Lent ends on Easter, I will own 40 fewer “things.”

    On Sunday night, I tackled a box of my childhood cards and letters. It was full of brightly colored envelopes, nearly every one of which had resealed after years of hot and cold in my parents’ attic.

    I reopened each card, with adult hands. They smelled musty. Most of them came from people who are now dead.

    I hurtled back in time — to happy birthdays and dinners at our house and holidays. Again, I was drawing animals alongside Aunt Tessie. Her old hands shook so that she could not draw straight lines. Judging by the pictures, my little hands were even less still.

    To fight the tears and the emotions, I scribbled in a reporter notebook. Mascara ran all down my face and burned my eyes and gray tears hit the notepad. This is wrong, wrong, wrong. I am only 26, I thought, and yet most of the people  who surrounded me in childhood now lay in graves.

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